The Right Time
by Uptake
Summary: Sark Season Three. He considered miming what locking the room down should look like, but decided against it. WIP.
1. In the Dark

**Disclaimer: I do not own Alias, etc, etc. Also, the dialogue is from the exact Alias script. **

He had thought she was dead. Soon after his incarceration he had heard the news from one of the guards. There had been a fire. The Double had escaped and Sydney Bristow's remains had been found among the ashes. No one knew exactly what had happened, but this one thing was certain: Sydney Bristow was dead.

Sark had not believed it at first. How could she be dead? It was almost as if he had been living under the assumption that she was immortal. The woman had been shot at, attacked with every conceivable weapon, had been chased down on foot and by car, and she had died in a fire. The irony had been almost too much for Sark, and he only began to truly believe that she was dead after weeks had passed and still there was no sign of her. Anywhere.

Of course, every cloud has a silver lining, and in this particular case it was Michael Vaughn. He had come to see Sark after Sydney's dental records had been deemed a match to the fragments from the apartment. His face seemed to have aged overnight and there was a few days growth along his jawbone and chin. He had walked right up to the barrier of the cell, and for a long time he simply stood there. Sark watched him, waiting for him to crack, waiting for him to show a sign, any sign, of grief. But he didn't. After a few minutes he turned and left without a word. Sark knew then that Michael Vaughn was a broken man, and that he might never be the same again. Though the thought brought him some small amount of pleasure, it wasn't as much as he would've thought. To hell with the silver lining.

The days and weeks went by without much notice from Sark. He ate his meals, though they tasted like nothing, he meditated, though nothing ever became clear, and he sometimes terrorized the guards, though his heart wasn't in it. It didn't matter that they let him have wine on the weekends, and it didn't matter that once a month he got to go outside. All that mattered was that she was gone, and she wasn't coming back. It shouldn't have been important, but it was. Some part of him deep inside had shifted, leaving a tiny crack in his soul.

And there was nobody to talk to. Marshall, who would've been Sark's first choice of company, never came to visit. In his optimism, Sark assumed his friend didn't have the proper authorization to gain access. Dixon and Kendall were the same, all dry protocol and no real substance. If Sark had attempted conversation, he would've been met with a blank stare or a disapproving frown.

Jack Bristow had come from time to time, and then suddenly, he had stopped coming. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth. The news slowly filtered down to him. Jack Bristow was in the custody of the NSC. For conspiring with the enemy. Who the enemy was hadn't been difficult to figure out, and it brought a rare smile to Sark's mouth. Love was a tricky business to be in. And speaking of love, it was also rumored that Michael Vaughn had remarried. He had left the Agency, and now had a new job, a new house, a new life. It was difficult to believe that Vaughn had moved on, but Sark accepted the Guards' reports as fact. They somehow knew everything that went on at the Agency, inside and out.

It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, when it happened. Sark had assumed his usual position on his cot, his knees drawn up to his chest like a child and his head resting against the wall. He had been thinking of his eventual escape, and wondering if there ever would be one. An exact date hadn't been part of the deal, but there was no use giving up hope, not when it was all that was left. He had just been envisioning the new wardrobe he would acquire, when suddenly, out of nowhere, there she was. He had heard someone approaching, of course, but he had assumed that the guards were simply changing shifts. He had turned his head a fraction of an inch to watch, and there she was, less than five feet away.

She looked exactly the same. Same hair, same mouth, same look of disdain whenever she looked at him. Before Sark quite knew what was happening, he had stood and moved towards the glass, hardly believing his eyes. She could've been a mirage, except he wasn't in the desert. She could've been a delusion, except he wasn't crazy. She could've been a dream, except he wasn't sleeping. She could've been anything except what she was, which was alive and breathing and standing before him. The delusional mirage dream creature spoke.

"I want a word before you get traded." The words echoed against Sark's skull. Traded. He had heard a whisper about some kind of trade that would take place on the following day, but nothing more. It made sense, though. How valuable was he now that the CIA had bled him dry of information, half of which was entirely made up? His only use now was as a commodity in trade. He wondered who wanted him. Irina? Sloane? An enemy looking for revenge against him? He wanted to keep guessing, but his mind was focused only on one thing, and it wasn't the upcoming trade.

His voice came out quietly, and a little hoarse from disuse. "Dear God, it can't possibly be you."

Her eyes turned hard. "Don't start this conversation by acting surprised that I'm alive." Every word dripped with sarcasm, and some part of Sark's brain had already begun to analyze her words. Another part, the part which provided his control and cool demeanor, clicked on.

"Sydney, you know how highly I regard your abilities as an operative, but even I didn't think you were capable of cheating death once your remains had been identified." He paused, wondering at the content that had settled in his stomach at the sound of her name from his lips. He crushed the feeling and moved on. "Which begs the question, if it wasn't your body they removed from the ashes, whose was it?"

"I read the transcripts of your confessions, including the fact that you and a woman named Allison Doren killed my friend. Francie."

She would have to bring that up, wouldn't she? Sark had put that whole business behind him. After all, it had happened two years ago. But what he failed to understand at the time, was that to Sydney Bristow, it was yesterday. "If you've read my transcripts, you know how cooperative I've been. I'll be glad to pay you the same courtesy if you simply tell me what you're getting at."

Her head tilted a millimeter closer to the glass. "That explosion in my apartment was a cover up to make the CIA believe I was dead. What I believe is that Sloane abducted me…I think you know why. But you failed to mention that in your confession."

A vague, unsettling moment of confusion. "If I'm to understand what you're saying, you have no idea where you've been for the last two years." Sydney didn't respond. "None?" He prodded.

Her eyes narrowed, and Sark felt something bubbling up in his throat. Laughter erupted from his mouth, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. "Unbelievable," he sputtered, hoping that she didn't hear the hysterical note in his voice. He tried to stop laughing, and failed dismally. "I'm sorry," he gasped, "I don't mean to laugh, it's just…I'm speechless. Sydney, if Sloane had intended to abduct you, I wasn't privy to it."

"What if I said I still don't believe you?"

He had regained a degree of control, enough to make the laughing taper off. "I'd say it makes no difference. In twenty four hours I'll be free, and you'll remain in the dark."

They stood staring at each other. Much too soon, she turned to go. "I'll see you in Mexico," she said, and then she was gone again, as suddenly as she had appeared. Sark sank back onto his cot and began to think.

ooooooooooooooo

The drive through Mexico had been a bore, and the view was depressing. They drove through miles of sandy terrain that was spattered with scraggly shrubs. They passed small huts with clay tiles on the roof and battered looking farm animals in the yard. Sark tried hard not to think too much about what was about to happen. He still had no idea of who this Covenant group was, or why they wanted him, and he hadn't the patience to keep guessing. The damn handcuffs were etching the sweaty skin off his wrists.

Eventually, the van stopped in the middle of the desert, leaving everyone there exposed to the sweltering heat. Being the sadists that they were, the CIA had dressed him in black. Everyone else was dressed much more sensibly, in lighter colors that would reflect heat rather than retain it. Bastards.

His escorts and the team got out of the vans to wait. They milled about outside, talking quietly to each other. Sark watched Sydney emerge from the van in front and walk towards him. She ducked inside the van, looking very much like a Girl Scout Troup Leader in her pigtails and baseball cap.

She bent down next to him to remove the shackles on his ankles. Her hand brushed his skin, leaving behind a trail of fire. She looked up to him, and Sark spoke. "I assure you, this organization, The Covenant, is as much a mystery to me as it is to the CIA. I can't imagine why they'd want to make this trade."

"You're about to find out."

There was a strange note in her voice. She broke eye contact for a moment, and Sark made a stab in the dark. "My life's in danger, isn't it?"

This time, she didn't look away. He met her eyes, and knew that in a few short moments his life could conceivably be at its end. The CIA was handing him over to an enemy to be killed, and Sydney knew it. Whether she cared or not was another story. It was hard to tell.

Something was happening outside the van. Vehicles were approaching. Sydney ushered him quickly out of the van, and they stood there side by side, squinting at the two approaching sedans. The sedans stopped a short distance away. A man stepped out and fired a flare gun. The flare streaked across the sky.

Sydney spoke into her walkie. "Space Ops, we've received a call signal. Should I confirm?" A moment later she pulled out a flare gun and fired. Almost immediately, more men stepped out of the dark sedan, among them the prisoner Sark was being traded for. What was his name? Sark had heard it on the drive. Rooter? No, Rotter.

Agent Rotter began walking towards them, and Sydney reached for Sark's handcuffs. He watched as she unlocked him, wondering if there was anything to say in a situation like this. "Off to die now, love. Have a nice life." Somehow that didn't work. Besides, his throat was dry. Dry from the heat and the sand and perhaps something else.

"You're up."

This was it. Sark took a breath and walked towards the sedans and Rotter. As he got closer, he became aware of a faint buzzing in the distance, a buzzing that sounded quite like a helicopter. But that couldn't be it. Presumably, that would go against the terms of the trade agreement.

The buzzing grew louder, and suddenly there were specks visible in the distance. An unauthorized chopper and more cars. Sark held out his hand to Rotter, motioning for him to stop. He nodded towards the approaching cars, and Rotter turned with him to watch.

A helicopter hovered over the group of cars, and then sped towards them. A squirmy feeling traveled from Sark's gut to his chest. The chopper circled the area, and a voice spoke from above. "CIA operatives! This is Sergeant Task of Delta Force! Put down your weapons! This operation has been countermanded by the National Security Council!"

Covenant operatives immediately fired at the sky, trying to take down the chopper. Son of a bitch. Sark threw himself down on the ground, Rotter beside him. Bullets flew overhead and sand swirled around, making its way into Sark's ears and nostrils. Rotter began to cough violently.

The next few minutes were chaos. Sark was vaguely aware of the helicopter going down, hysterical yelling and more gunfire. Then a car came skidding towards him and the driver yelled down to him, "Both of you! Get in! Go!"

Sark scrambled to his feet and dove into the car, Rotter close behind. Bullets hit the car as the driver sped away, but Sark knew they were home free. He also knew that he was now in possession of the Covenant, and that he would most likely be dead by the end of the day. But that was irrelevant, because he was alive now, and that was what mattered.

ooooooooooooooo

The room was black except for a bright light over the table. Sark rested his arms on the table's surface and waited patiently for someone to come. He had been in this situation before, and was used to it by now. The confinement, the darkness, the straight hard chairs and the sometimes blinding lights. It was kiddy stuff, really, and it had no effect on him whatsoever.

As he knew it would, the door opened and a man entered the room, carrying a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Interesting. The man smiled when he saw that he had Sark's full attention. "Chateau Patreuse, 1982. Your favorite, no?"

Sark's colorless eyes widened a fraction of an inch in mild surprise. He had not been aware that his proclivity for wine was quite so well known. "Have we met?" He asked. He was positive that they had not, but there was something familiar about the man, around the mouth and eyes.

The man was still smiling. "No. But you knew my brother. Antonin San'ko."

Ah. Damn it. He was a dead man. "And I suppose this is to be my last drink?"

San'ko pulled the cork out of the wine bottle and Sark caught a faint whiff of the liquid inside the bottle as San'ko poured the wine into two glasses. "I know the bomb you placed in that vehicle was not meant for him. On the other hand, it does seem that you owe me." San'ko sipped his wine.

The price would be too steep. Sark knew that already. Would he want a finger, a favor, or something else? "And what would the price be?"

"Eight hundred million dollars."

If Sark had been drinking his precious wine, he probably would have spit it out. "Eight hundred million dollars? I have nowhere near that amount in my nest egg." He had maybe a quarter of that amount, but eight hundred million…it was too much.

San'ko smiled. "In fact, Mr. Sark, you do."

He followed Sark's gaze to the wine at his fingertips, and slid it across the table. Sark stared at the wine, mesmerized. He knew down to the penny how much money he had access to, and he knew there was no way he had that amount. What was going on? He looked at San'ko, a feeling of unease swirling in the pit of his stomach. San'ko continued to smile, and the feeling increased.

ooooooooooooooo

At first, Sark had thought that giving up his royal inheritance would be a breeze. He would waltz into the bank, give these Covenant people all the money he hadn't known he had, which he's gotten from a father he didn't know, and in return he would get his life. Fair enough. No harm done. Maybe he'd even get it back in the future. Fate was funny like that.

But Sark had not been prepared for the sight of gold bullion. The eight hundred million dollars worth of gold bullion waiting in his vault. His thumb had been scanned, the doors had opened, and there it was. Shiny and gold and beyond beautiful. Wild thoughts of bonking San'ko on the head and somehow escaping with his money chased through Sark's head. Unreasonable, illogical dreams of freedom and wealth flickered dimly in the back of his mind. And then it was over. San'ko and his men had the money, and Sark was staring at an empty vault. It had happened so quickly.

San'ko and his men left without so much as a thank you, and before they were even out of sight Sark was plotting the ways in which his inheritance might be returned to him. All that money to an organization he himself wasn't even a part of seemed like such a waste. And Sark could not abide it. He made a decision. Either he would become an important figure in this "Covenant," or he would get his money back. He didn't know how or when, but his mind was set, and therefore, his decision made final and irrevocable. A faint chink sounded in his mind, a chink that sounded like several gold pieces falling into his open palm.


	2. Myth of Medusa

**Disclaimer: See Chapter One. **

Oransky was Sark's new contact within the Covenant. A day after giving up his inheritance, Sark had received a message instructing him that he would be working with Oransky on a project called "Medusa." There had been no question…it was an order. So Sark was now an official member or the organization, and obviously, he was starting on the bottom rung. It wouldn't do for the long-term, but it would do for now. He would work with this Oransky and he would do his job well. The Covenant would soon see what an asset he could be.

Sark's partner turned out to be a short, clever man who wore spectacles, not at all the hard core macho man he had been expecting. He was also a lot smarter than he appeared to be. Oransky had been the one to come up with the idea of beginning Phase Two by taking out his own satellite. It had been a stroke of genius, and more than a little bold. It would allow them to observe Russia's nuclear attack protocol and allow them to devise a way to steal Medusa. And once the Covenant had Medusa on their side, they would be nearly unstoppable.

Medusa had been made to pulse enemy satellites, and any country targeted by her would become blind to potential attacks. Whoever had Medusa would have the power over the world, and that thought made Sark pause. To have that kind of power, absolute power, was a big responsibility. Would the Covenant know how to handle it? Would they become overconfident? Would they even know what to do with their new power? These were just some of the questions that he had, and unfortunately, there was no one around to answer them.

Having scruples was not something Sark was familiar with, so he set his Doomsday thoughts aside and went about his business. He made dozens of calls on his cell phone, he checked in with various people, and he set up a meeting with Oransky. Which would explain why he was sitting alone at a table, waiting for his partner to show up. Of Oransky's many virtues, apparently punctuality wasn't among them.

Sark was beginning to feel the first tendrils of impatience when he saw her. Of course he recognized her right away. Her disguise consisted of a hat, a poncho, pigtails, and sunglasses. Not that great. Perhaps she was having an off day. He followed her with his eyes, and seconds later, Oransky was at his table. Sark tore his eyes from Sydney. He wouldn't want to give her away just yet, would he?

Oransky and Sark exchanged pleasantries, and Sark listened half heartedly as Oransky updated him on their situation. Sydney walked past and began idly examining a display of sunglasses.

Sark glanced at the pictures Oransky had brought with him of the Russian base. "Well, it appears they've revealed themselves."

"As I told you they would. Codes are changed twice a week." He handed Sark a piece of paper. "These go into effect the day after tomorrow."

Sark picked up two of the aerial photographs. "This is our target, correct?"

"Correct."

Oransky's head turned suspiciously to a figure over Sark's shoulder. Oh dear. Sark searched for something to say. "By the way, I like the name…Medusa. It's clever."

Oransky removed his glasses, his eyes clearly on Sydney. "That woman was watching us." He gestured to the stand behind Sark.

Sark turned to look, holding his breath, but she was already gone. "If she's CIA, we should be going."

"She might have seen the photos." For the first time, Oransky was losing a piece of his composure.

Sark grabbed the briefcase and began to walk away from the table. "Then I suggest you make sure she didn't," he said curtly. Let Oransky deal with the Sydney problem. He wasn't in the mood.

Of course, he was tempted to hang around and watch the ensuing chaos, but why bother? He already knew what would happen. Oransky would go after Sydney. Sydney would find a way to escape. People would get injured in the process. Big deal. How was this different from any other day on the job?

ooooooooooooooo

Sark was irritated. The gunmen he and Oransky had brought to the party weren't doing their job. When Sark had sent them to dispose of the men in the security booth, they had instead wandered into the basement and ended up in one of the wine cellars. Because of time constraints, Sark had been forced to deal with the security staff himself. He had gained access to the room by pretending to be a drunken guest from the party, and seconds later all the guards were dead and he had secured the room. Not exactly how he had wanted it, but there was nothing to be done.

By the time Sark had corralled all the wayward gunmen, he and Oransky were running slightly behind schedule. They practically had to run all the way down to the control room, and Sark had had to shoot a few more men along the way. Those hired gunmen of his weren't good for anything. All they had to do was point and shoot, but that was obviously too complicated for them to remember. He would get rid of them later.

They finally reached the control room and Oransky immediately set to work on the terminal that housed the Medusa core, leaving Sark to deal with the incompetent henchmen on the sublevel below. Sark pulled one of the men from the group and tried to speak slowly and clearly. "Until Mr. Oransky gets the Medusa core, no one enters the control room and this entire level should be locked down." He considered miming what locking the room down should look like, but decided against it. "I need you to secure all the access point with…"

The bell of the elevator dinged, indicating that someone was getting off. The door opened and Sark saw one of his men slouched down in one corner, blood dripping from his forehead. Sark shoved the guard beside him away and dove to the floor as Sydney and Vaughn emerged from the elevator. Sydney immediately began firing at Sark as he tried to run for the stairs leading to the control room. Damn those henchmen, they were going to get him killed.

Sark sprinted up the concrete stairs and flew into the control room. Oransky was still busy trying to remove the Medusa core from the terminal. Sark ignored him and walked over to the window overlooking the level below. Sydney and her Boyscout were down there, hiding among the equipment. He smiled and flipped on the PA system.

Sydney came into view, and he spoke. "I was wondering if you might show up. I looked for you upstairs at the party." It was true. Sark had thought Sloane might find a way to get them on the guest list, and he had been right. While passing through the ballroom, he had caught a glimpse of Sydney in a low-cut red dress, sipping champagne. At the time, he had wanted to stop and have a chat, but Oransky was all business. Too bad.

A couple of rounds from Sydney's gun smashed into the window, but to no effect. Bulletproof glass. Sark swallowed a grin and continued. "I've taken the liberty of discontinuing the elevator service." Sydney turned to look at the elevator, failing to hide her frown. "And unfortunately, Mr. Oransky, Medusa, and myself won't be here when the guards arrive. But I'm certain when they discover you, the Russians will be more than hospitable hosts."

That got a reaction. She shot him a poisonous look and turned away. Sark left the window and went to watch Oransky. They were getting short on time. Oransky was nervous. His hands shook as he removed part of the Plexiglas protecting Medusa. "We'll have the Medusa core in thirty seconds," he said without looking up.

Sark sucked on his cheeks, an unconscious nervous habit he had yet to get rid of, and went to study the readouts on the opposite wall. The lights suddenly flickered. Oransky let out a muffled yelp, and ran to check the readouts.

"What the hell was that?" Sark demanded. For a moment he had thought he felt the floor shifting beneath his feet.

Oransky began pushing random buttons. "The generator powers the control system. They've overloaded the voltage. Medusa is fried."

The hell with it. Sark pulled the gun from his waistband and cocked it. "We have to go." He walked towards the door, then stopped when he realized Oransky wasn't following him.

Oransky had his own gun now. "No way," he said, shaking his head. "This bitch shot me in the leg." He headed for the door leading back down to Sydney's level, and Sark debated about whether or not to chase him down.

No. He was leaving. Sydney wouldn't have destroyed Medusa unless she had a way out. Oransky would be caught on the sublevel without a way to escape, and Sark wasn't going to be with him. When this building blew, he intended to be a good distance away. He turned and went out the door leading to the exit, not bothering to look back.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark stood in the shadows, looking up at Simon Walker's building. There were silhouettes in the window. He pulled out his phone, dialed a number, and let it ring. Simon answered immediately. "Hello?"

Sark murmured the password.

"Good, yeah, come in."

Sark quickly entered the building and climbed the steps to the apartment. Simon was waiting at the door. Sark followed him into the front room, where the other members of the team were assembled. He let his eyes skim over the team while appearing bored and uninterested. Inside, he was more than a little curious.

Perez had been calling him and complaining about the new woman on their team. Her name was Julia Thorne, and according to Perez she was nothing but trouble. Sark found the woman, and nearly gasped as he took in her profile. It couldn't be…but it was. Sydney Bristow. By God, but she was everywhere. He knew her profile, her back, the lines of her body. As well he should. He had been watching her for a long time now. There was no doubt about it. Julia Thorne was Sydney Bristow.

Simon was waiting for him to speak. "The shift rotation's been changed," Sark said quietly, his eyes never leaving the woman called Julia Thorne. "We'll have to adjust our timetables accordingly. But that shouldn't change any of our plans." He finally looked at Simon. "Is your team aware of the fragile nature of the item?"

"Yeah."

Sydney moved closer to Perez, keeping her back to him. "By my calculations, we'll have to move everything up three hours. When you recover the item, contact me and we'll exchange it for the remainder of your fee."

Simon grinned. "Now that's sporting."

"Good luck," Sark said. He turned and went out, careful not to look at Sydney. This was an unexpected development. He would have to do something about it.

ooooooooooooooo

Upon discovering that Sydney was a part of Simon's team, Sark had decided to move up the timetable. It was the only option. He had contacted Simon and told him they had to meet immediately.

A brown van drove up the alley towards the spot where Sark was waiting. It stopped beside him and Simon and Perez hopped out of the back.

"What's the rush?" Simon asked as he approached.

Sark glare went unnoticed behind his sunglasses. "Timetable's moved up. That's all you need to know." He turned and opened the briefcase of money.

Simon moved to stand beside him. "Now look at that, hmmm? Now what's more beautiful than that?"

Sark glanced at the wine bottle Simon was carrying. "Perhaps what it pays for."

"Here." Simon handed him the bottle. "Cheers."

Sark wasted no time. He quickly opened the bottle and took a long swig of wine. He deserved it. This job was turning out to be one big headache, thanks in large to one CIA agent in particular. He lowered the bottle, savoring the taste. "Excellent. Biological weapons, please."

Perez handed Simon a case, which he placed on the hood of Sark's car. He opened it, revealing a small canister. Sark breathed a small sigh. He felt almost giddy from relief, or perhaps the wine. "You know, it's rare to find people who do their job well."

Simon smiled. "Well, even a thief can take pride in his work, Mr. Sark." He closed the briefcase and handed it to Sark. "Here."

"Thank you." Sark took the briefcase and walked to his car.

He slid behind the steering wheel and watched the brown van back out of the alley. He liked Simon Walker. True, he was little more than a dim-witted thief with big friends, but he had style, flair, and he knew how to dress. He had also brought Sark wine, and good wine at that.

As a thank you, Sark would call him later and tip him off to the CIA problem he had on his hands. No, he wouldn't give away Sydney, but where Sydney was, there Michael Vaughn would be also. It shouldn't be hard for Simon to dispose of the pesky agent. And by doing so, Michael Vaughn would cease to be a problem for anybody, least of all Sark.

ooooooooooooooo

Bomani was a scary bastard, and he made Sark deeply uncomfortable. When Sark had escorted him from the high security facility he was imprisoned in, he had thought Bomani might turn on him once they were safe. But he hadn't. Despite being one of the biggest arms dealers in Africa, Bomani was a man of his word. And now that Bomani was out of prison, there was only one more man to extract…

It happened quickly. Sark and Bomani waited inside the van while their men went to get Arvin Sloane. Sloane was outside his building, unaware of the man approaching him. The man pulled out a rifle and fired twice, his first shot shattering a window and the second killing Sloane's bodyguard.

Unable to contain himself, Sark jumped out of the van and shot at Sloane's driver. Amidst all the confusion, Sloane was ushered into the van. The driver squealed away from the curb, and Sark stared out the back window. Sydney was standing in the middle of the street. She really was everywhere. Was it possible she was stalking him?

A Mercedes pulled up to Sydney. She climbed in and suddenly the black car was racing towards them. Sark barely had time to catch a glimpse of the driver. Some blonde woman. Terrific.

With his usual impeccable sense of timing, Sloane started in, addressing Bomani. "You think I'm responsible for your imprisonment, but--" Bomani elbowed him in the face, knocking him out cold. Thank God. Now was not the best time for Sloane to be babbling on about nothing.

The driver looked at Sark. "They're gaining on us."

"Tell the chase car to take them out." Sark watched through the back window.

The Mercedes kept up with them, pulling through sharp corners, speeding through crowded intersections, and executing some pretty sharp moves. Who the hell was driving that thing? The van raced down an alley, and as fate would have it, some trucks backed in behind them and the Mercedes was forced to stop. They were safe.

ooooooooooooooo

Sloane had finally regained consciousness, and was strapped into a chair in the middle of the dark room. Sark could hardly make out Bomani's huge figure, but that was fine since his cue to turn on the light was verbal.

"I thought we were partners," Bomani said. Bingo. Sark flipped the light switch and crossed his arms, prepared for a bit of good theatre.

Bomani did not disappoint. "I thought we had an association." He emerged from the shadows, the light washing over his face. "I was wrong." Sloane said nothing, and simply watched as Bomani began to pace. "One day, when I was a boy in Juha Town, the tanks came..."

Dear Lord, was he going to tell that anecdote again? How many times would he insist on telling his sob story? Sark tuned Bomani out as he blathered on about his brother and mother and blah, blah, blah. He had already heard this ten times before.

Bomani picked up a machete, piquing Sark's attention again. He listened. "I promised myself that I would never be that powerless again…that I would do anything to protect my family." Bomani fingered the blade as one of his men rolled up Sloane's sleeve.

Sloane looked indifferent. "Yes, I turned you in, as you would have done me. Why? To obtain what you now need: Legitimacy." It was difficult to tell whether Bomani was listening. "In a nutshell, Mr. Bomani, I could help you become more powerful than ever."

A moment passed. Then, without warning, Bomani lifted the machete and swung down. Sloane didn't flinch.

ooooooooooooooo

The only reason Sark had agreed to meet with Perez was because he had been a good snitch, a useful snitch. He had reported on Simon's activities, and had told Sark everything he had uncovered about Julia Thorne. Simon had met her before and knew her…intimately. Also, as witnessed by Perez himself, she was a very good thief, and could handle just about anything. But Sark already knew that.

Sark turned when he heard Perez's footsteps behind him. The small, mustached man looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Thank you for meeting me," he said, his mustache giving a nervous tick.

"Please. After your excellent work in Spain you more than deserve the courtesy. Unfortunately, we have to be brief. I'm catching a plane to Osaka." Or Ontario, or some place that starts with an "O." It was Osaka, wasn't it? Or maybe it was Tokyo, except Tokyo started with a "T."

Javier handed Sark a folder. "We've taken on a new client. He says his name is Gilbert Warner. Corporate and personal tax returns confirm he's the CEO of Rogers Automotive. But he knows how to lose a tail. I think he's a pro. I'd like some more detailed background. Would you mind running a check?"

Sark opened the folder and was greeted by the unsmiling face of Jack Bristow. Gilbert Warner, was it? It took him a millisecond to make up his mind. "I don't believe I have to." He looked at Perez. "His name is Jack Bristow. He's CIA."

Perez's expression turned from confusion to shock and anger. Sark practically squirmed with pleasure. He couldn't wait to see his face when he heard who Julia Thorne really was.

ooooooooooooooo

The casino in Osaka was impressive. Unfortunately, Sark got to see very little of it as Bomani practically dragged him through the main floor and along several hallways. Bomani took out a guard here and there, and finally they were in the right place. Sark seated himself at the computer and began to type. "It'll take me a second to transfer a copy to our server."

Several seconds passed. Why did this room smell faintly of perfume, Sark wondered? He also caught a faint whiff of aftershave. It reminded him of the stuff Marshall used to wear. Like lime mixed with…something.

The screen changed and the computer began to beep. "Done," Sark announced.

Eager to leave, Sark trailed Bomani out of the room. Just as the door closed behind him, he could've sworn he heard a sneeze. Funny. Even that sneeze that sounded like one of Marshall's. Sark shook his head in amusement. Marshall Flinkman was an ocean away. He must be losing his mind.


	3. Second Resurrection

**Disclaimer: See Chapter One. **

Sark hated this cloak and dagger crap. Of course, there were times when he relished the intricacies of his job, the subtlety he sometimes had to employ when dealing with matters of a delicate nature. This was not one of those times. There was no need for him to be driving around the back streets of Strassburg in a junked up old van. There was no need for him to be having a meeting at one o'clock in the morning. And there was no need for him to be dressed in black leather. That was the only perk available to him at the moment. He liked leather. However, he did not like the Covenant Member sitting opposite him. He was smarmy and disrespectful.

"This is where Lang will be," the Member said, handing him an envelope.

Sark took it. "I'll take care of it."

"It must be done a certain way. There's an extraction required."

Obviously. Why couldn't this guy shut his mouth and let Sark get to bed? "I assume you've stepped out the details," Sark said, trying to stem his impatience.

The Member smiled. "Yeah, your partner's been briefed."

Hell, no. "My partner? I don't think so." Just who did these Covenant people think they were?

The smile faded. "This is not a request."

"Look, if you don't trust me by now, perhaps you should be in business with someone else. And you can tell that to San'ko." He leaned forward, letting the shadows outside slide over his face. It was one of his better intimidation techniques. The Member just laughed.

Minutes later, the van pulled down one of the side streets and stopped. Where were they? Without ceremony, the Member unlatched the back doors and shoved Sark out onto the pavement. Sark managed to stay on his feet and turned, fuming, back to the Member. The Member laughed at his expression. "You can thank me later," he said. Then he slammed the door and the van was pulling away.

Thank him? For what? For stranding Sark in the middle of nowhere? For manhandling him like he was nothing more than a piece of meat? Sark was trying to come up with another example when he saw a shoe. A high-heeled, strappy shoe stepping out of a car. The shoe was attached to a body, and the body was attached to a face. A face Sark had thought he would never see again. Was he seeing things, or was Allison Doren really walking towards him, looking fabulous in a black jacket and miniskirt?

She came closer and Sark caught a scent of her soap. It was Allison. This was confirmed as she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He kissed her back, though his mind was still in shock. She pulled away from him. "You look like you've seen a ghost." She smiled.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark lay contentedly behind Allison, her warm body aligned with his. His left hand stroked hers as he watched her profile. "I truly thought you were dead these last two years. You'll have to start at the beginning, or the end, after the last time I saw you." Allison could hold the key to Sydney's missing two years. She could have vital information.

She shifted slightly in his arms. "Will Tippin discovered what had happened, that his girlfriend had been killed and I'd been doubled to take her place. He had to be eliminated."

He tried to sound nonchalant. "What happened with Bristow?" He was careful not to use her first name. Sydney was too personal to be using with other operatives. "When the Covenant found you, you were both unconscious."

"I can only remember that in bits and pieces…She came home…I realized she knew…she aimed the gun at me…The next thing I remember, it was three weeks later and I woke up in a Covenant run hospital outside of Marseilles. Took me six months to fully recover. I've been working for them ever since."

"Were you behind them extracting me from the CIA?"

Her hand squeezed his slightly. "I wish I could claim credit for that. I only learned you were working for us recently."

Bitterness rose in his throat. "My tenure began shortly after my father's murder. They freed me in exchange for my inheritance."

"Who killed your father?"

The eight hundred million dollar question. "I don't know. But I intend to find out." Allison moved again, and Sark ran his fingers over her scarred back. "Bristow should have to pay for these scars." He pressed his lips to one of the longer scars running along her shoulder.

"She will." Allison turned her head to smile at Sark, and he leaned in to kiss her on the lips.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark crossed the rooftop with an envelope of information for Allison. He held it out to her and she took it. "Heinrich Strauss. He's the man providing Lang with identity papers. As we speak, he's getting drunk in the club." Like I should be doing.

"I'll keep an eye on him."

He watched as she got ready to go in, pulling on fingerless gloves and prepping the sniper rifle she would take in with her. Sark took a moment to appreciate her efficiency, her smooth confident movements. It was funny, but she seemed more alive now than she had ever been before. Ironic, actually, that she should seem so animated, so full of life. Sark almost wished that the moment would stretch on, just so he could keep admiring Allison in her element.

But she was soon ready, locking her clip in place and cocking the rifle. "Let's go," she said. Sark followed her down to the sidewalk, where they parted ways. Allison was to go in alone. Sark was to stay in the van and monitor the situation. The arrangement suited him perfectly. He had a feeling that he and Allison weren't the only ones after Strauss. They would have to wait and see.

Allison returned within half an hour. Upon being questioned, she said that there had been no trouble in getting the tooth. Her empty rifle told a different story.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark poured Allison another glass of wine as they waited for Sloane. Allison had thought it strange when Sloane had requested a meeting with them, and Sark was downright suspicious. It was likely that Sloane would be wired. He would have to watch what he said.

Sloane was approaching their table, muttering to no one in particular. Sark strained to read his lips. "I was very patriotic once."

Damn it, he was wired. Probably to the CIA. Oh well.

Allison lit a cigarette and began puffing away as Sloane stopped at their table. "Mr. Sark, Allison." He sat down. "You're looking well."

"I look like someone else," Allison said. "When you hired me to undergo gene therapy, you promised me you could reverse engineer the process."

Sark didn't know what Allison was complaining about. She looked better now than she had before the surgery. Of course, denial was an ugly thing. Maybe this was her way of coping.

"Ah, but Sydney Bristow destroyed the technology that would have allowed us to return you. I'm sorry for your loss."

The smoke from Allison's cigarette was beginning to bother Sark. He wanted to get things moving. "You indicated that it was important we meet."

Sloane gave Sark his usual look, the one that reminded him of a particularly satisfied cat. He half expected Sloane to purr. "The CIA is onto you. My sources tell me the Agency knows you've extracted an RFID chip from Mr. Lang. The plane that you've chartered is under surveillance. As council to the Covenant, I suggest that you move up your timetable. If you'll let me know where you need to go, I'll have a plane waiting within the hour."

If one word of Sloane's statement was true, Sark would eat his napkin. Allison confirmed. "He's lying," she said impassively.

Sloane tried to placate her. "Allison," he began.

Sark cut in. "No, she's a wonderful judge of character."

Sloane ignored him and looked at Allison. "Sydney Bristow found you in Milan. If I were a betting man, I'd say she'd find you again. I'm simply here to help."

What the hell. "We're going to Bulgaria." You know, thick eyebrows, funny accents. "The device is in a vault in Sofia."

"I can get you there first thing."

"Tomorrow morning." They would have to beat the CIA there.

"Done."

Thank God, now they could leave. "Our business here is complete." Sark waited for Sloane to stand up, but he sat there for a moment, as if listening to someone else. Which of course he was. He finally looked back up. "I'll call you as soon as the arrangements are complete."

For a moment it seemed like Sloane was preparing to leave, but then he sank back down into his chair, and Sark's feeling of ecstasy evaporated. "You know Allison, I'm thinking. Seeing you again, I'm reminded of all the things that have happened over the past two years. I…I'm curious, have you and Sydney Bristow crossed paths?"

Sark had felt that there was something slightly off about the meeting, and here it was. Sloane was wired to Sydney, he was sure of it. Why else would Sloane ask such a random question? Sark waited for Allison to answer, anxious himself. Maybe there was something she had forgotten to tell him.

"Why?" She asked.

"Well, I heard you had the opportunity to kill her in Milan and that you didn't take it."

Information like that could only have been furnished by Sydney herself.

"The Covenant asked me not to."

Sloane settled his chin on his hand. "Really? Why is that?"

Allison brow wrinkled slightly as she thought. "They want to retrieve something. Something in her memory."

Sark could practically see Sydney's eyes widen in surprise.

"What? Something she saw? Something she experienced?"

"I'm as curious as you are."

Sloane nodded thoughtfully, and soon after he rose from the table and was gone. Sark turned to study Allison as she lit another cigarette. Was it possible that she was holding out on him? Did she know more than she was letting on? As she turned to smile at him, Sark decided it was entire possible that she was keeping secrets. And if she was, Sark would find out. He always did.

ooooooooooooooo

A few days had passed, but Sark was still irritated about Sloane being wired at their last meeting. He was meeting Sloane now to drop off a disk, but he didn't plan on hanging around. How could Sloane think he was smart enough to pull one over on Sark? It was insulting.

Sloane stopped before him and gave him the Cheshire Cat smile. "I assume we're here because the Covenant requires something of me?"

No, I just enjoy spending time with you. Sark pulled a clear disk from his coat and held it out, careful to avoid contact with Sloane's fingers. "Your new assignment."

Sloane fingered it and gave Sark a penetrating look. Probably trying to think of newer, better ways to screw him over. Well Sark wasn't going to give him the chance. Before Sloane could say anything else, Sark turned and left. Forget the formalities. Forget manners and politeness. He had to get back to work.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark had been looking forward to this meeting very much. He was very curious as to what the new wife of Michael Vaughn would be like. He had her picture, so he already knew she was very attractive. Blonde hair, blue eyes. If Sark didn't know any better, he would say that she was the one who had been driving the Mercedes during the car chase in Zurich. But according to the reports, she wasn't field-rated, so it couldn't have been her, could it?

He watched as Lauren Reed got into her car and tried to start it. She tried several times, then got out and peered under the hood. She found the disconnected battery, which had been courtesy of Sark, and reconnected it. Sark stepped from his hiding place as she closed the hood, and aimed his gun at her neck. He cocked the gun, and her eyes slid to the side. He spoke quietly. "Get in the car, please."

Sark slid into the back as Lauren took her place in the driver's seat. He kept his gun at her head, thinking that she was almost unnaturally calm. She wasn't even shaking. If anything, she looked angry. Not the usual reaction. "I've jammed the feed of the CCTV cameras, so let us speak freely. You know who I am?"

Her big blue eyes looked at him in the mirror. "Yes."

"I understand your investigation into the Lazarey murder has hit a dead end. What a pity."

"How do you know that?"

The mysterious Covenant mole inside the CIA had kept them informed. "I know because I framed Javier Perez, assuming he'd be extradited to the United States, and that once he was in custody, he'd be forced to confess what he knows. Namely, the identity of Adrian Lazarey's murderer." He hoped she wouldn't notice that he hadn't actually answered her question.

Her anger seemed to have intensified. "This is the second time I've had a gun put to my head. I don't particularly like it. Now, I'm going to assume that if you wanted me dead, I would be. So if you have something to tell me, do it!"

Sark smirked at her audacity. He really did like this woman. She was sharp and bold and brutal, and she smelled like lavender. It was enough to make him want to bury his face in her hair. He restrained himself and handed her a portfolio. She looked at him questioningly in the mirror, and Sark answered her silent question.

"A wedding present. A touch informal, I know, but everything else on your registry was taken." He really had looked at her registry. She had impeccable taste. Another point in her favor. "Open it."

She opened the portfolio and began slowly flipping through the photos. "Where did you get these?"

"Where is not important. What is important is who." He watched her continue to go through the pictures, waiting for her to get to the good ones. "Her name is Julia Thorne, merely an alias. She goes by another name, a name you're quite familiar with."

She had gotten to the picture of Sydney. "Oh my God," she whispered, clearly horrified.

"Now you should understand why I'd risk coming to you like this. I recently learned that Sydney Bristow murdered a father I never had the chance to know." He paused, not sure if he wanted to continue. He did. "I suspect you have your own reasons for disliking her, therefore I'm confident that you'll relay this information to the appropriate parties."

Sydney Bristow could burn in hell for all he cared. She had murdered his father, something she had no right to do. Sark had wanted that honor. Now he would never get it. He opened the door to get out, then stopped. "By the way, I've rigged a weight sensitive charge to the underside of this vehicle. Once I leave you, I'll activate it. If you attempt to get out of the car before thirty minutes has elapsed, the charge will detonate." He paused again, wondering at the sincerity of what he was about to say. "If has been a pleasure, Ms. Reed."

He stepped out of the car and moved to stand by the hood. He looked into Lauren Reed's confused, overwhelmed face as he activated the charge. The device glowed red. Sark nodded at Michael Vaughn's wife and walked away, hoping that he would have an excuse to meet with her again. Little did he know, he would.

ooooooooooooooo

Sark's information about Lazarey's murder, which he had obtained from the now deceased Perez, had gotten Sydney in trouble with the government. Lauren had turned over the photos as evidence, as Sark knew she would, and Sydney had been imprisoned in some black ops camp. Camp Harris, or Camp Williams. Camp Something. Either way, it was what Sark had counted on. What he hadn't counted on was Sydney being rescued from the facility.

The extraction was being blamed on the Covenant, but Sark knew the truth. Sloane had been involved, and Jack of course, and probably the ever-entertaining Michael Vaughn, who seemed to have recovered from his knife injury. Pity. Sark's life would be so much more satisfying if Vaughn was dead.

So Sydney had once again managed to evade death, and Sark wasn't sure if he was glad or not. It was true that she had killed his father, but still…he had grown rather attached to her over the years. It wouldn't be the same if she was dead for real. So maybe it was a good thing that Sydney was alive. He would decide later.


End file.
